Though It Were Ten Thousand Mile
by RobotRollCall
Summary: Amy lets the Weeping Angel send her back to 1938 to find Rory, but he's not in the graveyard when she arrives. Where to go from there? Coda to The Angels Take Manhattan.


_A/N: I thought Amy and Rory had a very touching, well-done departure, but when it was all said and done, I found myself still wanting a bit more closure. Add that to my love of writing the Ponds, and this is what I came up with_

_The title is the last line of one of my favourite poems-"A Red, Red Rose", by Robert Burns. In full, the stanza reads "And fare thee weel, my only love/And fare thee weel a while./ And I will come again, my love/Though it were ten thousand mile." And isn't that just perfect for the two of them?_

_Of course, nobody in this story actually belongs to me, much as I would love them to. Amy and Rory, obviously, belong to Moffat and the BBC, and I might have nicked the Matron's name in homage to another show I enjoy. (Shaky little reference, but go on and have a guess if you like.) If you recognize Frank, you'll realize he's not mine either. While he's in his original universe, I actually didn't mean to put him in the story at all. He just wandered in on his own, but I liked him, so I let him stay. Bonus points if you can place him._

* * *

With a painful jolt, Amy crashed to her knees. She stayed crouched in the wet grass for a couple of minutes, unable to stand as a wave of dizziness passed over her. By the time she got to her feet, she was soaked through with the rain and already starting to shiver. She took another few seconds to orientate herself. A few minutes ago it had been a clear sunny day, and now it was pitch black and raining. She wiped the tears from her eyes—a futile gesture in the pouring rain—and looked around. Yes, she was in the graveyard still—the view was much the same, although lacking the Doctor, River and the TARDIS, and (thankfully) the tombstone bearing Rory's name. She spun around quickly, her eyes searching the gloom, as she realized she was alone. No tombstone, but also no Rory.

Well, she told herself, there had been several minutes between Rory disappearing and her following. There was no tombstone, so Rory was obviously still alive. There must just have been some sort of delay—maybe the Angel wasn't precise to the minute on when it sent people back. It must be something like that. No need to panic just yet.

She took a deep breath and looked around, hugging her arms tightly to herself. This was probably just later in the same day. Rory most likely waited, and then left to look for shelter when the rain started. So that was what she would do. Her eyes now adjusted to the dark, she was able to make out blurs of streetlamps through the rain. She set off at a determined march, slogging through wet grass and puddles until she reached the front gate.

The light was much better here by the road, and though the rain hadn't lessened, at least she could see. She was able to find the latch on the gate, and with freezing fingers, slid it aside and slipped out onto the sidewalk. She stood uncertainly for a moment, wondering which way to go when a flash of movement caught her eye. Rory?

A tall man in a dark rain slicker appeared, carrying an umbrella. She caught a flash of silver on his lapel—a policeman. He carried on until he reached her, frowning slightly, but held out his umbrella to include her in its shelter. Near to, she saw that he didn't seem to be any older than she was. "You alright, ma'am?" he asked. "Saw you coming outta the gate there," he nodded towards the cemetery. "Not s'posed to be in there after dark."

"Yes. I'm sorry, sir," she said, her teeth chattering slightly with the cold. "I just—I was looking for someone—I was supposed to meet him here, but I was…late." She paused. "I don't suppose you've seen him? He's about this tall," she held up her hand near the man's shoulder. "And he's quite thin, with sort of brownish-blond hair."

The policeman looked thoughtful, but said nothing. "Please," she went on. "It's very important that I find him."

He looked at her a moment longer, then asked, "English fella, was he?"

"Yes!" Amy said, her eyes lighting up. "Yes, that's him!"

The policeman nodded. "Yeah, he was here. Left a couple of hours ago when I was closing the gate."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Mm-hmm," he said. " 'Least, he asked directions to someplace to stay for the night. I pointed him on to the King's Street Mission. It ain't far—I figure that's where he went."

"Oh, thank you!" Amy said, grabbing his free hand gratefully. She hadn't been that far behind him after all! "Could you tell me how to get there, please?"

"Sure," he said, smiling down kindly at her. "I'll drive you there, if you like."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," she assured him. It wasn't like she was going to get any wetter. "If you could just tell me…"

"No, I'll take you there," he said. "Wouldn't be right for me to let a lady walk all that way—'specially not on a night like tonight."

"Thank you," she said. Truth be told, she didn't fancy stepping out from the umbrella's shelter and back into the rain. "As long as I'm not getting you in trouble for…leaving your post, or anything."

He smiled again. "Ma'am, my job is to look after the citizens of this city. If I'm not mistaken, that includes you too."

"Yeah," she said softly. "I guess it does." He led her to the corner where an old-fashioned police car was parked. No, she corrected herself. 1938. Not exactly old-fashioned yet. He opened the door for her on the right side, and she paused in confusion for a moment before remembering that they drove on the other side of the road in America. This was going to take some getting used to.

Once in the car, he handed her a blanket from the back seat, and she gratefully wrapped up in it. "My name's Frank," he told her. "Never did catch your name, ma'am."

"Amy," she told him. "Amy Williams."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Williams. You mind tellin' me what you're meeting people in a graveyard at night for?"

"It's Mrs. Williams, actually," she said, poking her hand out of the blanket to reveal her wedding ring. "And the man I was meeting is my husband. Like I said, I was late—I was supposed to meet him much earlier." He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. Where to go from here? She supposed a little white lie wouldn't hurt. They were going to need some sort of cover story, after all. "We just arrived from England. We've had quite some rough times, and we're new in the city and we…got separated."

Frank nodded sympathetically. "They're tellin' us the Depression's drying up, but plenty of folk are still having hard times. Ain't much of a welcome to our city for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh, it could have been worse," Amy said, smiling slightly as she thought of several planets where torrential rain and an economic depression would have been a warm welcome indeed compared to the one they actually received.

Frank smiled. "Look on the bright side, that's the spirit. Ah! Here we are." The vehicle pulled to a stop outside of a modest building that managed to look cheery even through the gloom. "It's a decent place. They'll give you a warm bed and a good meal, and if you don't find your husband here, come by the station tomorrow mornin' and ask for me and I'll help you track him down."

"Thank you," Amy said, wriggling out of the blanket. "You've been wonderful." She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, surprising him, and leapt out into the rain.

She splashed up the steps and through the front door into a foyer that was at once warm and inviting. Her sudden entry startled a young woman with a broom who eyed her with some confusion. "Sorry, are you looking for the Matron?" she asked at last.

"No," Amy said. "I was told this was a good place to stay for the night."

"Oh. Well then," the young woman said, suddenly more business-like. "If you'll come on through here, we're still serving dinner. We'll sort you out a place to sleep afterwards."

Amy nodded her thanks and opened the door the woman had indicated, making her way into a large dining room. The smell of soup and fresh bread was overpowering, reminding Amy how hungry she was, but food would have to wait. She quickly scanned the room. Long tables lined the floor, mostly occupied by men, but several women were scattered about and there were even some families with young children. Her heart sank as she looked over the last of the big tables without having seen Rory. Quickly she turned her eyes to the people behind the counter serving food and the men lining up by the door handing over dirty dishes. Nothing. Then her eyes landed on a number of booths along the back wall, all empty, save one. In the very back corner a man sat alone, soup untouched in front of him and head down in his arms on the table. "Rory," she breathed.

* * *

With a painful jolt, Rory crashed to the ground. For a moment he sat, his head spinning. What the hell had just happened? All outward appearances would suggest that he had simply suddenly and inexplicably fallen over. He certainly hadn't gone anywhere. He was still in that graveyard in the middle of New York. Although…He had been talking to Amy. A quick look around confirmed the feeling in his gut that she wasn't here. Nor were the Doctor and River. This was bad, and a niggling in the back of his mind told him it was about to get worse. But what…A sickening weight settled in the pit of his stomach. There had been a gravestone. A gravestone with his name on it, and it wasn't here. He propped his arms on his knees, covered his eyes and groaned. The jolt, the crash, the disorientation…He knew that feeling. In fact, he should have recognized it a lot sooner, as it was the third time it had happened today. A Weeping Angel. A bloody Weeping Angel. He was in the past.

He uncovered his eyes and stared blankly ahead at the spot where his gravestone had been. When could he be? 1938? It had been 1938 the last time. Maybe they all sent you to 1938. The Doctor hadn't said, although he had been going on about 1938 being time-locked and the waves of time around that year being all screwy. Maybe that was why? If all the Angels sent people to 1938, it would mess with the time lines, wouldn't it? It seemed sound enough logic, given the little knowledge Rory had of the technicalities of time travel (which he knew was very little indeed).

So what to do now? Amy and the Doctor would come after him, that much he knew. Amy would probably smack him on the arm and tell him to be more careful, and the Doctor would have some joke about having to rescue him from the past twice in one day. He should probably wait, then. It would be easier for them to find him if he didn't wander off. This little patch of graveyard was quiet, and judging by the height of the grass, a bit neglected, and seemed as good a place to wait as any. He cast a cautious eye around making sure there were no more Weeping Angels to be seen, and, satisfied that he was alone, he settled down under a tree to wait.

The day wore on, and for the first little while he was content to remember that the Doctor was a bit rubbish with landing when he meant to. They had probably set right off after him and landed goodness knows where. But the Doctor would get it sorted and they'd show up here. Any minute now…

Another couple of hours ticked by, and Rory found he was running out of ways to silence the little voice in the back of his head reminding him that the Doctor was actually quite good at landing when he meant to when it was really important. Could be you're really not all that important; the little voice went on to add in a malicious whisper. Oh, no, he wasn't going down that road again. He'd given up on that line of thinking years ago. He knew he was just as important to the Doctor as Amy, and Amy…well, Amy was his wife. She'd torn time apart for him once, and he didn't doubt for a second she'd do it again. It was just old, irrational fears worming their way back into his consciousness. With little else to distract him, he may not be able to stop them coming, but who said he had to listen? He trusted the Doctor with his life, and he trusted Amy with more than that. They'd be here.

Another hour…two…three…Rory did his best not to worry. To keep his mind on a positive track, he did what he used to do when he was plastic and his brain got bored on sleepless nights—he ran through song lyrics, singing in his head whatever songs he happened to think of. When he couldn't think of any more songs he switched to poetry. Somewhere in the middle of The Raven he drifted off—he never had been able to finish that one, and it hadn't been the most relaxing of days. He'd fallen down stairs and off a building, died twice and been thrown backwards, forwards and sideways in time. Even considering life with the Doctor, a day like that could wear on a man.

An ominous clap of thunder brought him awake again with a start. He looked up. The sky had darkened considerably, and a menacing crest of clouds was rolling in like a tidal wave. He shifted farther back under the tree and glanced down at his watch. Nine hours he'd been waiting. Nearer to ten, now, really. What could be taking them so long? A soft, slow trickle of rain began, and he drew his knees up to his chest and shivered. The tree was keeping him dry for now, but he doubted it would do much once the rain really started going. Ten hours…That was a long time. Sure, he'd waited longer, but it's not like the universe was ending this time. The Angels had been dealt with, and there shouldn't have been anything keeping them. He swallowed hard as a very unnerving though occurred to him. What if they couldn't come? They'd been in something of a rush, but the Doctor had been pretty clear about the timelines being a mess and the trouble the TARDIS had had getting in. They would have come for him by now, Amy would have seen to that—unless they couldn't. If they were locked out of 1938, that would explain why they weren't here. And if they were locked out…Then he was well and truly stuck.

A steady, Southern drawl broke him out of this depressing realization. "I'm gonna have to ask to you to come on out, sir. It's time for me to close the place up." He looked up to see a policeman standing a few feet away.

"Right. Sorry," he mumbled. He may as well. If he was going to spend the rest of his life here, a graveyard was hardly the place to do it. He pushed himself to his feet and followed the policeman to the front gate.

The man busied himself with the latch then looked over at Rory as he stared out into the street. He had no idea where to go from here. "You alright?" the man asked.

A humourless laugh escaped his throat, surprising both himself and the policeman. "No," Rory said, running a hand absently through his quickly dampening hair. "No, I'm really not." He could feel the policeman's eyes on him, sizing him up, no doubt wondering if he was drunk, or perhaps a mad person who hung about in graveyards all day. He sighed. "Do you know of anywhere I could go to get out of this rain for the night?"

Something in the policeman's gaze softened. Perhaps he didn't seem mad after all, just…homeless, maybe? He supposed he was now. And 1938…was the Depression still going on in America? He was a little rusty on that bit of history, but if it was, that probably would go a fair way towards making him seem less out of place. Maybe that's why the look in the policeman's eyes was now more one of pity than suspicion.

"Sure," the man said kindly. "Head on up this street and take a left at the first intersection…" He directed him towards something called the King's Street Mission. Rory listened with the part of his brain that needed the information, while the rest of it tried to focus on the rain and not what an utter shambles his life was suddenly turning out to be.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and set off up the street. About halfway there, the drizzle finally morphed into the full-blown thunderstorm it had been threatening to turn into since the clouds rolled in. He hugged his arms tightly to himself, but otherwise ignored the chilly drops lashing against his skin and soaking through his clothes. His mind was racing. Maybe there was still a way out of this. There must be. So, maybe Amy and the Doctor couldn't come to 1938. The Doctor had said he couldn't come to this year again—that meant they were locked out and Rory was locked in. He wasn't completely sure yet if that was true, but he was prepared to accept that it probably was. But there were other years. What about 1939? Even if they couldn't come for him now, Amy wouldn't leave him here forever. And if it was just next year, well, he could wait a year. He wouldn't like it, but he could do it. After two thousand years of waiting, what was one more?

He supposed hope was good. It would give him something to cling to; something to keep him from going mad—but it didn't do much to make him feel better at the moment. A car drove by, showering him in a spray of muddy water as it slid through a puddle. Lovely. He had thought he couldn't get wetter, but no, turns out that was wrong. He tramped on, and shortly arrived at the door of the mission.

He pushed the button for the doorbell, briefly considering punching it as it trilled through the air. What business did it have sounding so cheerful? He wondered for a moment if they could even hear it inside over the roar of the rain, but the door was quickly opened by a warm, matronly woman who ushered him inside.

"Gracious, what a storm! Come in sir, come right on in!" She bustled him inside, closing the door quickly behind him. "Well now," she said, looking him over. He was sure he was quite a sorry sight. "I'm guessing you're after a bed for the night?" Rory nodded. "We're a bit full tonight, on account of the weather, but I think I've got something that'll do. This way." She beckoned for him to follow her through a doorway and down a hall, and he did so, listening to his footsteps squelching in the carpet. "Here we are," she announced, pushing open a door to a tiny room. "It used to be a closet, I'm afraid, but we always need more room around here, and we were able to get a bed in. As it's just you, it should be alright," she told him apologetically.

"No, it's great, thank you," Rory assured her.

"There's some dry clothes there on the bed. They may be a bit big for you, I'm afraid—you sure are a skinny thing—but at least you'll be warm. If you'd like to go ahead and get changed, I'll take those wet things of yours down to the laundry and have them cleaned up for you." With that, she backed out of the room and shut the door.

Rory sighed, and after a moment began to peel off his wet clothing. Mechanically, he emptied out his pockets into a small pile at the foot of the bed, then dropped the clothes into a soggy heap on the floor. Neatly folded at the foot of the bed were a pair of trousers, a faded shirt and a woolen jumper. She was right, they were too big, but he turned up the cuffs of the trousers, tightened the belt and rolled up the sleeves on the jumper, and thought he at least looked more presentable than when he came in. There were no shoes or socks, but his own should be dry in the morning, and it was warm inside. At least he was dry, and warming up, which made him feel very marginally better.

There was a knock at the door, and he opened it to find the woman had returned. "Thanks for the clothes," he told her, trying to smile. Just because he felt like rubbish didn't mean he wasn't grateful.

"Oh, not at all, not at all," she said. "If I could just have those." She indicated his wet clothes on the floor, and he scooped them up and handed them to her.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, looking down at the sodden patch of carpet.

"Oh, don't you worry about the carpet, son," she said. "Bound to happen on a night like this. Now, we'll be serving dinner in half an hour. You head on back to the foyer and it's on the left. You're welcome to go on and talk with some of the other boys, or you can just rest here." She paused and looked Rory over carefully. "It may be a silly thing of me to ask," she said. "But are you alright? You look like your day's been a lot worse than just some rain and no place to sleep."

"Yeah," Rory said. "It has. I, ah…" He looked down at his hand, running a finger over his wedding ring, and his throat tightened. Great. Was he about to start crying in front of a complete stranger? He looked back up quickly. "I'm having trouble thinking of one that was worse, actually."

The woman nodded, but instead of offering a clichéd platitude about things getting better, she simply patted him on the shoulder. He realized she had probably had enough people through here to know when it was best just to say nothing at all.

"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you need." She turned to go, then stopped. "I'm Matron Keeler, by the way. What's your name?"

"Rory," he said. "Rory Williams."

"Welcome to the King's Street Mission, Mr. Williams."

She left, closing the door behind her, and Rory sat down heavily on the bed, dropping his face to his hands with a sigh. In the tiny room, the light switch by the door was within arm's reach, but he didn't bother with it. "Oh, Amy," he whispered. She was gone. A force to be reckoned with, Amelia Pond—she had stood down an army of Angels and thrown herself off of a building with him, but it hadn't been enough. He'd lost her anyway. She would try to come for him, of that he had no doubt—tonight, tomorrow, next year…who knew when? But right now, cold and alone in the dark, he was faced with the terrifying possibility that he might never see her again. So many times they had done the impossible, defying death, time and the universe to stay together. What if this was the night their luck ran out?

The tightening in his throat returned, and his vision blurred as tears prickled in the corners of his eyes. If Amy was here she would tell him to stop it, to be strong and hold on because she was on her way. But that was the point, wasn't it? Amy wasn't here, and she might never be. He wasn't going to give up hope, no, he would be strong for her and hold on and wait as long as he needed to. He would be strong for Amy…but in a minute. Right now, he was a man who had lost his wife, cold and alone in the dark, and he drew in a ragged breath and allowed the hot, salty tears to trickle down his face.

* * *

Her eyes fixed on Rory, Amy rushed across the dining room, muttering half-hearted apologies to the men she jostled and elbowed out of her way. Her heart screamed that it was taking forever to get across this stupid room, and yet it seemed that all she had done was blink and she was standing beside him. For a moment she just stood there, drinking in the sight of him as if it had been years since she'd seen him, instead of half an hour. His hair was mussed, the same way it was on Saturday mornings when he got out of the shower and lazed about, instead of brushing it properly. His feet were bare underneath the table, and she found she had to fight the urge to fling herself on top of him and hug the stuffing out of him, so adorable he looked in a jumper that was far too big.

He hadn't noticed her approaching, remaining with his head down in his arms. She reached out a gentle hand and laid it softly on his shoulder. Wearily, he raised his head and turned to look at her. He blinked in astonishment, his lips moving soundlessly as he mouthed her name. "Amy?" he whispered, as if he didn't dare believe it was her.

"Hello," she said, choking slightly on the word as happy tears swam in the corners of her eyes. She'd found him. She'd really found him! The Angels hadn't stolen him after all. She smiled, and the look of pure relief that swept over his face broke her heart as she realized just how miserable he must have been.

"Amy!" he shouted, jarring the table and sending his dishes clattering as he leapt to his feet and threw his arms around her. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. Who needed air when there was Rory? She laughed happily into his shoulder and squeezed him back just as hard. "Oh, Amy, I thought I'd lost you," he whispered thickly into her hair.

"Same here," she admitted quietly.

"I thought you couldn't…I mean, I thought—"

"Oh, shut up and kiss me," she whispered, and he was only too happy to oblige. She reveled in the feel of his lips on hers, warm and welcoming and home, and she knew they would be alright here. They could be stuck anywhere—she was home as long as she had him.

Cursing her lung capacity, Amy finally let go of him when the need to breathe forced them apart. He smiled down at her, joy sparkling in his eyes, and reached up a gentle hand to cup her cheek. Unable to hold them in any longer, joyful tears spilled down her face, and he brushed them away softly with his thumb, gently planting a kiss over the track they had run.

She tore her eyes away from his at the sound of a soft, embarrassed cough behind him. They both turned to see a woman Amy could only assume was the Matron of the mission standing behind them. "Everything alright then, Mr. Williams?" she asked, mostly succeeding at hiding the amusement in her voice.

"What? Oh, yes, um, sorry…" Rory said, glancing back at the overturned bowl of soup on the table behind him. With one arm he pulled Amy close to him and turned back to the woman, unable to stop himself smiling. "Matron, this is my wife, Amy."

"Ah!" the Matron said, smiling broadly. "Quite a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Williams, and I'm so glad you found your way here! I daresay your day's gotten a bit better then?" she added, turning to Rory with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

"Yeah," he agreed, smiling down at Amy. "Yeah it has."

"Well, don't let me stand in the way of your reunion," the Matron said, and with a nod she turned and walked away, shooing away the maids and the small children who had gathered to watch.

Amy laughed. "Looks like we've attracted a bit of a crowd."

Rory smiled as he guided her to the seat next to him in the booth and pulled her close. "Well, they can look all they like, because I am never losing you again."

She leaned into his shoulder and wrapped her arm around his. "You won't. I'd have to let you go for that to happen, and I won't be doing that again."

* * *

Later that night, Rory yawned contentedly as Amy snuggled against him. They'd had dinner, the Matron had found dry clothes for Amy, and now they were back in the little closet, warm and together in the dark. The single bed was a bit small for the both of them, but Rory wouldn't have had it any other way. All he wanted was Amy in his arms and he felt that he couldn't hold her close enough. Amy, oh, his wonderful Amy! She'd let the Angel take her, let herself be locked up in the past knowing she'd never see her friends or family or the Doctor again, and all for him. All to be with him, and Rory felt like laughing out loud—they'd defied the universe again.

"You alright?" Amy asked him.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," she began, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "You did die twice today. That's got to be rough on anybody."

"Even for me, I guess that's a record, isn't it?" he teased. She laughed softly.

"Really though," she went on, her voice becoming more serious. She grabbed his hands and clutched them tightly to her chest. "You didn't say much when I told you we were stuck. We're stuck sleeping in a closet in New York in 1938 and we can never, ever go home again—"

"I am home," he interrupted. He squeezed her hands tightly. "I've got you, haven't I? That's all I need."

"Really?" she asked in a small voice.

"It's all I've ever needed."

The bedsprings squeaked as she flipped over to face him, and she grabbed his head and kissed him soundly. "Lucky it's the two of us stuck here, then," she told him. "Since the only thing I need is you." He pulled her close and kissed her again, and she nestled against his shoulder as the rain sang them softly to sleep. "We're going to be alright here," she whispered sleepily.

"Yes we are," he agreed, kissing her softly on the forehead. "Yes we are."


End file.
